I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Hawkins did not continue.

He closed his eyes and pulled the tune from the bottom of his throat.

The first line was sung terribly.

The old pastor's Adam's apple bobbed once before he could finish the second sentence.

Sleep, sleep, my little lamb.

The river water isn't cold, and Mom is at the bridgehead.

Hundreds of people were crowded on the embankment.

The evacuation team stopped halfway; the man clutched his hat, and the woman held her child in her arms.

At first, no one dared to answer.

A woman in the back row started humming first.

Her husband died last winter.

But the tune she hummed was for her daughter, who was buried before she was even a month old.

She had sung this song countless times at her daughter's grave; she couldn't even count how many times she had sung it, and she could sing it with her eyes closed without making a single mistake.

"Go to sleep, go to sleep, the light is still on."

Your name, Mom remembers.

The second woman took her place, followed by the third.

Mothers who had buried their children in the North District poured out their voices one by one.

Some people are half a beat ahead, some are half a beat behind, and the tune is all crooked.

The words are the same, and so is the same hope.

On the other side of the Black Ditch, Richard stood.

He "heard" it from the other side of the curtain.

The moment the song fell onto the black water, the water changed.

The black water that was originally flowing towards Mr. Reeve's direction was stopped by the singing from the center.

A very faint light seeped out from under the feet of the group of people on the embankment and flowed upstream along the water's surface.

Against the flow of the Black Ditch.

The water in the Black Ditch flows downstream, towards the center of that net.

For decades, it has only ever gone in one direction.

But this light was different; it flowed towards the bridgehead where Mom was standing, going upwards and towards the shore.

Richard figured it out.

This is a new river.

A river paved with songs.

Among the hundreds of shadows standing underwater, a small group of shorter people stopped in their tracks.

They were still wearing their original small faces, and they were originally walking step by step toward Richard's weakness, but now their feet were tripped up by the reverse flow of light.

They turned around and looked in the direction from which the singing was coming.

"Milk," Mrs. McNeil said, kneeling at the gate.

The moonstone pendant on the bone bracelet on her left wrist began to glow.

A ray of light from the moonstone drifted out of the bone bracelet, fell to the water's edge, and condensed into an indistinct shadow.

It wasn't tall, not much taller than those children.

Milk walked to the water's edge and bent down towards the small group of short shadows underwater.

Richard remembered this spirit; it was the one that led the boy who counted at the Holbrook textile factory away.

Only children can listen to it.

The moonstone pendant opened.

"How many are we counting to?"

A child's shadow rose from the bottom of the water.

"...Forty-seven."

It was a boy's voice, but it sounded hollow and ethereal from being submerged in water for so long.

"Keep counting," Milker said.

"Count slowly, count to one hundred. Mom is waiting for you on the shore, can you hear her? She's singing to wake you up to sleep."

The child's shadow tilted its head and listened for a while.

The lullaby from the shore flowed over line by line.

Sleep, sleep, the light is still on.

"...Forty-eight." The child counted, "...Forty-nine."

As it counted, it relaxed its previously tense posture.

Richard watched.

"Give me your name." Mr. Hutton's voice was terribly hoarse, but he still managed to hold on.

He stood at the gate, a stack of rubbings in his hand pressing down on the frame of the judgment.

"On shore, let your mother give you her name."

The news reached the other side of the embankment.

The old pastor paused a line of his song.

He turned around and glanced at the group of mothers singing.

"If you think of someone, say their name aloud, say the nickname you call out in your heart every day."

There was a moment of silence on the embankment.

The woman was the first to speak.

"...Lily, my Lily."

She was referring to the daughter who didn't live past her full month old.

She had recited this name countless times at her daughter's grave, but this was the first time she had ever spoken it aloud in front of a large crowd.

"Lily, go to sleep, Mommy's here."

On this side of the curtain, the smallest shadow in the water moved.

It was a baby who died while still in swaddling clothes. He couldn't stand up at all; he was just a blurry little thing floating at the bottom of the black water.

Upon hearing the name "Lily," the little thing floated up toward the direction of the sound.

The moonstone pendant reached out and caught it.

"Lily, your mother is calling you. Let's go home."

It led that little shadow, following the light that flowed against the current from the song, towards the shore.

As I walked to the water's edge, the child's shadow vanished.

It was scattered very lightly, like someone was asleep.

Under Richard's spiritual vision, the small thing that was originally trapped in the water turned into several very faint points of light.

The daughter followed the river of the song to the bridge where her mother was standing.

The woman on the embankment had no idea what was happening behind the curtain.

She just felt that something that had been weighing on her heart for years had finally been released.

She burst into tears, but as she cried, she continued singing the lullaby.

One by one, the mothers began to call out their names.

"Tom."

"Xiao Qiong".

"Betty, my Betty..."

For every name called out, the shadow of a child would rise from the water toward the singing.

Moonstone pendants walked back and forth along the water's edge, one after another.

It always speaks so softly and slowly, like someone really putting a child to sleep.

"Have you finished counting?" it asked.

"I've finished counting."

"Go to sleep after you've finished counting, go to sleep."

The child's shadow bent down, lay down by the water, and dissipated.

The counting stopped one by one.

Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine... one hundred.

The children who have counted to one hundred can go to sleep.

Richard stood by the gate, watching this scene unfold.

The spells that lull these children to sleep have nothing to do with the incantations.

It's the song that mothers use to lull their children to sleep.

Does anyone remember what the children's names were?

By the time the first song was finished, there were no more children in the Black Ditch.

They all followed that reverse-flowing light and went back.

We returned to the shore, back to the bridge where my mother stood.

The children have all left, leaving only the adults standing at the bottom of the water.

An adult's shadow is more troublesome than a child's.

They've been soaking in water for longer, so their resentment is stronger.

Lullabies don't soothe them; they just turn their heads away and ignore them when they hear them.

Richard saw that the dark mass in the center of the water was beginning to converge again in Mr. Reeve's direction.

Children are vulnerable, so let's send them away first.

But some of the adults refused to leave.

"Change the tune," Mr. Hutton said.

On the other side of the embankment, the old pastor stopped singing the lullaby.

He wiped the sweat from his brow and looked back at the line.

An old man stepped out of the line.

The old man came because he heard the bell.

He was hunched over, clutching an old account book with a worn-out cover in one hand.

He managed the accounts for the dockworkers for nearly forty years.

His notebook records how much each laborer earns, how much debt he owes, and how many shillings he receives in compensation for work-related injuries.

"Old Joshua," Mrs. McNeil nodded to him.

The person who reads this must be someone who recognizes these men.

Old Joshua is just right.

Most of these laborers, coal miners, and boiler room workers had been registered in his ledger.

He recognized their employee numbers and remembered how much money they earned in a month.

The old pastor started the tune.

It's the kind of chant that men sing when carrying cables at the dock or pulling mine carts in the mine, a tune that several men shout together with their combined strength.

The old pastor slowed it down.

Shouting slogans is to exert effort; he releases the effort, leaving only the tone, slowly and heavily pressing down.

"One, two, three, hoist the cable onto your shoulders!"

"Four, five, six, the water under the bridge is deep."

The men on the embankment stared wide-eyed when they heard the tune.

This is the tune they chant every day.

"Brothers, hold on tight..."

This time, I'll take him home.

The first man shouted out.

He was a dockworker, with chunks of flesh on his arms and a very loud voice.

His eyes reddened when he shouted.

The second one, the third one.

One by one, the men carrying the loads joined in with their voices.

They've been chanting this tune their whole lives, always chanting it for sheer willpower.

This is the first time they've called it that; they're doing it as a gift.

On this side of the curtain, the river of light flowing against the current widens.

The work chants were more somber than lullabies.

It landed on the black water, and the river of light surged to both banks.

What was originally a thin line has swelled into a decent river.

The man's shadow, which was standing underwater, stopped in its tracks.

Old Joshua began to pronounce names.

He held the old Bigger's piece of paper up to his eyes and squinted as he read each word.

"Thomas Reed," he read.

After reading the name, he looked up and glanced into the water to confirm which one it was.

"A stevedore, 31 years old."

A tall figure's shadow appeared underwater, then turned around.

It was the shadow of a burly man with broad shoulders.

He drowned at the age of thirty-one, and it's unknown how many years he was submerged in the water.

Old Joshua's finger landed on the small print in the annotation column.

That was written by old Biggs; this is what is meant by "the unfinished business."

Old Joshua read that line aloud.

"...He owes his wife a scarf."

On the embankment, a woman in the crowd suddenly felt her legs buckle.

She was Thomas Reed's wife.

The winter Thomas Reed drowned was particularly cold.

He had promised his wife that he would buy her a thick scarf after he received his wages.

Before he was paid, he fell into a ditch.

She'd owed that scarf for years.

On this side of the curtain, the tall figure underwater heard it.

It followed the sound and walked ashore.

It bent down and scooped something out of the black water.

He couldn't see what he had fished out, but he pretended to be holding a thick scarf as he walked up to his wife.

Its wife couldn't see anything; she only felt a sudden warmth on her shoulder.

The shadow draped the non-existent scarf over the woman's shoulders.

Then, it dissipated.

The debt has been paid off.

Old Joshua reads the next one.

"William Hutchins, boiler worker, forty-six years old."

Another shadow turned around underwater.

"...I'm still thinking about the birthday I didn't get to celebrate with my youngest son."

The old pastor led everyone in singing.

The accountant read out names, and one by one, the figures came ashore, each having put aside their own worries, and then dispersed.

This tune is very deep.

These men carried heavy loads their entire lives while they were alive.

Before they leave, someone has to carry their portion of food for them.

Halfway through the song, something unexpected happened in the water.

Those who refused to leave suddenly rose up.

Among the shadows standing underwater, several were so dark with resentment.

Before the accountant could even read out their names, they pounced towards the shore.

They've been soaking in the water for too long, and their hatred runs too deep.

They want to drag the living people on the shore down with them.

"Sarah!" Lieutenant Colonel Odd roared.

Sarah was already waiting.

She had already raised her modified double-barreled shotgun.

The old pastor is singing.

The chant was slow and deep, falling one beat at a time.

Sarah's gun fired in time with the beat.

boom!

The first shadow that pounced ashore was pierced by a silver lead bullet and turned into black water, retreating back.

Her shot hit the very beat of the song.

boom!boom!

She fired two rounds in quick succession, then ejected the cartridge and loaded it again.

boom!boom!boom!boom!

Eight seconds, six shots.

Every sound landed precisely on the beat.

Gunshots and singing mingled together.

One by one, the vengeful spirits that rushed ashore were driven back into the water, and one by one, their shadows followed the river of song ashore, relieved of their worries, and fell asleep.

Death and salvation revolve in the same song.